Hostage For A Hood Read Online Free Page B

eggs.
    * * * *
    While Luder was waiting for his breakfast in the roadside diner in Rye, Santino slowly came out of his deep sleep. He pulled himself off the bed, his thin, pinched face hollow-eyed and deeply lined and he stretched his wasted arms and yawned. Wordlessly he stared for a moment or two at Cribbins, then stood up and went to the sink in the corner of the room. He washed sketchily and dried his face and hands on a soiled turkish towel.
    Santino had only removed his shoes and loosened his tie when he'd turned in so it took him very little time to get ready. He waited until after he'd put on the faded jacket and pulled the cap over his eyes before he went to the closet and took out the worn cardboard suitcase.
    Cribbins watched him without speaking, as he snapped open the latches on the suitcase and inspected its contents. He seemed satisfied, and reclosed the bag. He checked his watch, which he carried in his trouser pocket.
    Cribbins suggested a cup of coffee, but Santino shook his head.
    "I'll get one outside," he said. He was leaving as Mitty returned. The two nodded briefly, passing each other in the doorway.
    Carefully closing and locking the door, Mitty turned to face Cribbins and shrugged his thick shoulders. "A real sour ball, that one," he said.
    Cribbins nodded. "Yeah, but he knows his job, and that's what counts. How about the car?"
    "Out front," Mitty said. "All set."
    Cribbins got up and moved over to the dresser. He pulled open the second drawer from the top and reaching in, lifted out the uniform.
    "Okay, let's get started then."
    He tossed the clothes over to Mitty and then opened the top drawer and took out another collection of garments. "We'll get dressed," he said, "and then start cleaning up this place. When we leave it will be for the last time and I want to be sure there are no prints or anything—just in case."
    He had to remove the shoulder holster which held the .38 Police Special which he was never without, in order to get into the blue flannel shirt.
    * * * *
    Santino felt like hell. He coughed, a hollow, wracking cough, as he walked down the steps from the rooming house and into the bright sunlight of the fresh morning. It was a beautiful day, already warm, and promising hot, dry heat for later in the afternoon. The charm of the early fresh morning air was, however, lost on the little man.
    He never felt good in the mornings. It wasn't until later, some time around noon after he'd had his first needle, that he really began to feel good. Feeling good, for Santino, wasn't like feeling good for most men. With Santino it was largely negative; a sense of suspension when his mind would wander and he'd live in a sort of half-world of fantasy and dreams.
    He rounded the corner and as he walked, with quick, jerky steps, he pulled a package of cigarettes from his coat pocket and tore open the top of the package. In spite of the cough he lighted one and drew deep puffs. He choked then for a moment and cleared his throat and spit.
    He went directly to the small restaurant a couple of blocks away and stopped outside long enough to buy a morning tabloid. Entering, he found a stool at the counter and ordered black coffee. That waitress asked if he wanted anything else and he growled a quick "no." He read the paper as he drank the coffee, turning at once to the back pages and checking the race track results.
    When he finished with the charts, he went back and started with the front section. He read only the headlines and the captions under the pictures. His eyes lingered longest over the scattered photographs of seminude girls—chorus girls whose pictures were used largely for decorative purposes and other girls who had made the publicity grade because of lawsuits or current jams with the police. His eyes were shadowed and lecherous as he slowly absorbed the pictures; in his mind he was committing all sorts of unspeakable acts.
    Twenty minutes after he'd entered the restaurant, he paid his check and